


while all the while

by MissELY



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Professors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25861306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissELY/pseuds/MissELY
Summary: “Touch has a memory”—John KeatsWild-fire heat tore through her.She felt all his touches, all of them, finally, burn through her, the flames of his affection causing the lingering scars to burn.She caught fire.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 10
Kudos: 149





	while all the while

**Author's Note:**

> For [SSHG Prompt Fest Summer 2020](https://sshg-promptfest.livejournal.com/), Prompt #115 “Touch has a memory”—John Keats. A series of SS/HG touches.
> 
> Prompt by Q_Drew
> 
> A million thanks to my lovely alphas/betas SyrenGrey and geekiebeekie

_he cradled her hand_

**Summer of 1995**

The first touch was purely by accident. 

The hallways of the first floor of 12 Grimmauld Place were crowded after the Order meetings. Members were having side conversations or trying to leave; the children were lingering, hoping to overhear a tidbit of information. Homing for something to cling to despite all the deep uncertainty and fear that seemed to be the heartbeat of everyone in the building. 

Hermione was 15 and had become hyper aware of her body in the way that only puberty lets you. Where every touch of another person’s skin on yours is somehow mystifying, because your skin doesn’t feel like your own.

She had been lingering, watching, body half tucked behind the doorframe of the library. Her vantage point gave her a clear sightline to the front door, and she was close enough to be able to hear at least snippets of most conversations. Harry was supposed to arrive in the next week, and she was hoping to hear something about when they might expect him. Or how he was. Something.

She was desperate for information.

Every day since she had stepped off of the Hogwarts Express felt a little more like drowning. She thrived on knowledge, on planning. But here she could do nothing but sit around and watch as the adults around her looked more haunted every day, jumping more at noise, the shadows under their eyes growing darker.

Which was why she was hiding in the shadows of the entrance to the library; praying that the gloom hid her and that people had loose enough lips to let something, anything, slip.

That’s when she heard the dark silk of her Potions Professor’s voice.

“I’ve told you that waiting around for the Dark Lord to make a move is idiocy.” The baritone timber of his voice conveyed a certain sharpness and disrespect. 

She bit her lip so hard that she left indentations in the plush of her lower lip. Was he right? Was the Order making mistakes in strategy? Severus Snape was no fool and if—

Hermione shook her head sharply to cut off her cycling thoughts, trying to re-focus on the conversation.

She couldn’t see who he was talking to from her angle, but she leaned forward slightly to try to see.

“Well Dumbledore—” She didn’t recognize the nasal voice of the second speaker.

“Well Dumbledore nothing. If you think that the Death Eaters are sitting on their hands as we are right now, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Professor Snape was using the tone he normally reserved for Neville when he was about to blow up a cauldron; part exasperation, part anger, all derision. 

He abruptly turned away from who he was speaking to and began to stalk towards her, away from the front door.

Her heart began to beat double time and she felt a shiver of something—panic maybe—shoot from her chest to her throat.

Her hand was curled around the doorframe, and she attempted to retreat out of view and back into the library, doing her best to shield herself from view. 

But Professor Snape moved too quickly. 

Before she could follow up on the thought he was on her.

“Miss Granger,” he hissed, eyes flashing with irritation, “you should either improve your espionage skills or cease your efforts to spy. Reckless little girls who hear too much often get in trouble.”

He loomed over her, his lean length dwarfing her. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off of him and smell his skin—cloves and some other spice. She felt vulnerable and small, and in a flash she was sure that his every move, every word was calculated. How could it not be? Spending more than half of his life as a spy left no room for careless gestures of thoughtless words.

Her eyes were round as she looked up at him. She did her best not to flinch away from him or lean back. She swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat. 

She nodded.

He looked satisfied with her nonverbal answer. He started to turn away, but she caught the lapel of his robe, holding him back in what must have been one of the most reckless moves of her life.

She could feel the pounding of her heartbeat through her entire body, and that same frisson of that feeling—panic, adrenaline, something—radiated back down from her throat to settle in her stomach. What had she been thinking, how could she—

He looked down at where her small hand grasped the black material of his robe with shock of his own. 

“But, Professor Snape, do you know—” her words came out in a rush, one piling on top of each other, aware her courage could only hold for so long.

“I know nothing that I am able or willing to share with you Miss Granger,” he said, voice hard, eyes still trained on her tan hand caught in the surprisingly soft fabric he wore like armor.

He reached up with one of his hands, fingers long and expressive, his skin so pale it was almost translucent. He cradled her hand with his own and she marveled for a second at the contrast. His larger hand covered her smaller one, his porcelain skin against her warm summer tan. She could feel the calluses on his fingers, which she was sure were hard won from years of dueling, holding a knife, and stirring cauldrons.

But his hands didn’t remain gentle.

He detangled her grasp from his clothing with the precision of a surgeon. His grip on hers as he peeled his fingers away from his person was just this side of too tight. There was half a second—right between when she had been forced to let go of his robes and him dropping her hand abruptly—that he cradled her hand like it was something precious. In that instant his skin felt like a brand on hers, burning. It sent a thrill up her spine and she inhaled. 

The clasp of his hands around hers made it so that they were almost holding hands. How silly, she thought briefly, that the first person she had held hands with since her parents was her professor.

He dropped her hand like it was a burning coal and it fell limply to her side.

“If you insist on playing the spook,” his words were scornful and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks, “then at least put the barest amount of effort into developing any of the requisite skills if you do not want to be unceremoniously slaughtered.”

He turned on his heel, robes billowing around him. 

She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and clutched her hand to her chest. Her fingers went to the places where she could still feel the lingering impression of his touch. 

His scent lingered with her, distracting her for the rest of the day.

She didn’t see him again until school started. 

  
  


_chest to chest_

**Spring of 1997**

She found herself in the dungeons almost purely by accident. 

Ron and Lavender were apparently back on, despite their increasingly frequent and very public arguments. She knew this because in addition to very public arguments, they also had very public reconciliations. Which meant they were snogging on a sofa in the middle of the common room; Lavender on his lap, his hand too far up her leg to be decent in a common area. 

She was self-aware enough to admit that it hurt. She had shed most of her crush bit by bit throughout the winter, helped along by Lavender’s constant nattering and their makeouts in the common room. Ron must have had at least an inkling about how she felt about him, so him choosing to be so obvious about his affection for another over and over again was a slap in the face. Even if he didn’t feel the same way, he didn’t have to flaunt his relationship like this. 

If she were honest with herself, it hurt her ego more than it hurt her feelings at this point.

All that was left now was a bad taste in her mouth, and a wish that they would move their antics somewhere private. 

To escape, she had taken to picking up extra Prefects patrols here and there. It gave her a chance to get away from everyone, even Harry, who had what Hermione suspected was a crush transformed into an obsession with Draco Malfoy. 

Tonight, her patrol over, she still hadn’t felt like going back, so she was wandering. 

Lost in thought, she didn’t see the figure in black walking swiftly towards her. Apparently he didn’t see her either, because they collided with such force that Hermione would have been knocked off her feet had broad hands not caught her and prevented the fall. 

She was pressed chest to chest against the stranger; her softness butting up against someone firm, unyielding, and distinctly male. 

Whoever it was didn’t let go immediately, and Hermione found herself relaxing into his grasp. His arms curved around her waist, gripping with just enough force that she could feel the press of each one of his fingertips into her skin.

“Miss Granger,” his tone was rough and low with warning. “Might I suggest you watch where you’re going.”

Hermione started at her Professor’s voice. She looked up at his face and noticed that he didn’t look entirely like his usually unflappable, cold self. Instead, this close she could see the stress lines around his mouth, how grey with fatigue his skin was. His cheeks were hollow, making his sharp features and strong nose stand out even more on his face. There was a flash of something in his eyes that looked like despair. The hand that was curled around her hip was unsteady and he just looked beaten down.

She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, how she might help, but his hand shifted just enough to come into contact with the bare skin where her shirt had rucked up, coming untucked from her skirt. The shock that it was his hands on her bare skin startled her silent. 

Professor Snape flexed his hand against her hip and she felt the drag of his fingertip against her skin. It made her shiver with something that wasn’t fear.

She cleared her throat and took a step back, out of his grasp.

His hands curled into fists.

“Sorry Professor Snape,” she murmured and turned, hurrying back to the warmth of the Gryffindor Common Room. 

She consciously chose not to dwell on the imprint of his hands that she still felt seared into her skin.

  
  
  


_brushed his hair from his face_

**Winter 1997**

She never told anyone she saw him once, during the hunt for horcruxes. 

It had been only the once, during the middle of winter, when it felt like the darkness that pressed in on all sides was about to consume her. She was miserable, Ron had run away, and that fucking necklace was spitting acid into her heart for endless hours. 

Foraging provided her a respite. For a little while she could pretend that she was taking a walk in the Forest of Dean, like she had with her parents many years ago. But this time the reality of the situation pricked at her every step of the way as she scoured the forest floor for mushrooms. It was the coldest day Hermione could remember in a long time and the icy wind cut through her warming charms, leaving her shivering despite her many layers. 

She had the wand that she and Harry were forced to share, given that she was the one venturing out from behind the wards; but she still felt too vulnerable, too seen.

There was a jagged inhale somewhere ahead of her and she was about to make a silent escape when the inhale turned into a broken moan of pain. It sounded more animal than human.

She took a tentative step forward, closer to a clearing in the woods, and saw him.

He was sprawled on the ground, clad in his full robes, mask discarded nearby. He was a black hole, sucking in all the light on the too-white of the snow.

For a minute she thought he was dead. His eyes were closed and he was too still. But another gasp convinced her otherwise.

She inched another step closer, against her better judgment.

He looked so young. He was just 37, but there in the grey-dead of winter he looked much younger. The lines on his face had smoothed and there was something soft about his expression.

For a minute she could forget that he murdered Albus Dumbledore. Forget that he was overseeing what was sure to be a Hogwarts that more closely resembled hell. Forget that he was a Death Eater.

For that minute all she felt was pity.

She didn’t dare revive him, and she wasn’t skilled enough in healing to do anything for him. Besides, she wasn’t sure she even wanted to help him. So instead, she lingered over his prone form for a minute. Her mouth formed an unhappy moue as she clenched and unclenched her hands, debating what to do. An uncomfortable knot formed under her breastbone, making it hard for her to fill her lungs. Finally, she brushed his hair from his face with a gentle hand.

She disapparated from the clearing as his eyes fluttered open.

  
  
  


_her hands pressed against his throat_

**Spring 1998**

They never spoke about how she had helped save him, that night in the Shrieking Shack. 

His eyes were glazed over and he watched with indifference as she frantically tried one healing spell after another, before finally settling on Muggle means to preserve his life.

He looked decades older than he was, lines around his eyes and mouth standing out against the deathly palor of his skin.

She had wrapped her small hands around the wound in his neck, applying pressure, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding. But the blood seeped around her fingers, dripping down her wrists and staining the cuffs of her shirt.

It felt intimate being so close to him, feeling his slow breaths against her face as she leaned in close, feeling the weak pulse of his heartbeat under her palm where her hands pressed against his throat.

She could feel her heartbeat racing, sweat beaded at her hairline, and she was shaking so badly that she thought she might fly apart. 

By the time she pulled away, satisfied the bleeding had mostly stopped and he had swallowed enough blood replenishing potion, her hands were sticky with his blood. She wasn’t sure if it had been seconds or hours that she had labored over him.

His eyes were shut, but his breathing was steady.

“Kreacher!” She called into the silence, voice just above a whisper. She didn’t know who was around and desperately wanted to avoid attention.

The elf popped next to her, a sneer already in place.

She didn’t give the house-elf time to call her names, and instead delivered instruction in an authoritative low voice.

“Kreacher, I need you to get him somewhere safe. He seems stable for now but needs more medical attention. Tell them—” 

She broke off. Tell them what? That he had given Harry memories that were potentially valuable? That he deserved to be saved?

But Kreacher interpreted her pause as the end of her instructions. He grabbed Professor Snape, popping him off somewhere else, to where she didn’t know. She hoped that Kreacher hadn’t brought him back to the Death Eaters.

She stood and staggered, catching hold of the wall to steady herself. Her legs had gone numb and she took a second to decide on her next step.

Harry and Ron had already gone to the castle. Once she was sure her legs would hold her weight again she rushed off, no time to do anything other than wipe them on her jeans while running to the next part of the battle.

She didn’t notice the bloody handprint she left on the wall.

He had lived, but just barely. 

She wasn’t sure why she saved him. Later she would tell people that he had been a war hero, that of course he deserved to live. But when she had pressed her hands against his neck, when his blood had seeped under her fingernails, they hadn’t known that for sure yet. If she was honest with herself, her decision had been made in the split second their eyes had met as he gave Harry his memories. There had been something in his obsidian eyes that was soft and desperate.

She was never sure if he was angry with her for helping to save him or grateful.

  
  


_hand rested against her cheek_

**Fall 2003**

She hadn’t sought him out after the battle. She figured he had enough people hounding him. 

Harry’s defense of him in the Wizengamot had been impassioned and heartbreaking. The heartbreaking and personal memories that Snape had given Harry were played for the whole wizarding world to see. 

Hermione didn’t want to be another burden. 

She thought he deserved privacy. 

She thought they all deserved privacy. 

And secretly, she also thought that this whole notion of making him a heroic romantic figure was a bit too far. Sure, he deserved credit for the spywork he had done. But he had still been a poor short-tempered teacher, and some things she just couldn’t overlook.

She had retreated after the end of the war. At first she had been eager to help with reconstruction, eager to help society progress, eager to do something of use. But no one, not Kingsley, not the surviving adults in the Order, not the cowards who had refused to pick a side or who were complicit but had just enough cover to stay out of Azkaban, none of them really wanted to hear from The Golden Trio.

None of them wanted to pay attention to the child soldiers who had fought for them, who had sacrificed their childhoods, and part of their souls.

Sure, they were paraded out at celebrations and offered perfunctory jobs in the Ministry, but no one really took them seriously. Hermione couldn't blame them. They had been children torn apart by the war and forced to wield weapons, children who had been too focused on survival to learn politics. 

But still, at the time, it felt like a slap in her face. She had given up everything, her family, her safety, her future, only to be given a pat on the head and a ribbon that signified nothing.

Instead, she left; first to Australia, then to the continent. She travelled extensively and continued to learn. She sent postcards home, and received sporadic letters in return. She didn’t begrudge her friends their silence. They had found lives in the wreckage. Harry, Ron, and Neville had entered the Aurors, Ginny had finished school and gone straight into a professional Quidditch career, and Luna was somewhere in South America conducting research.

She stayed away until she felt the pull home felt stronger than her impulse to flee.

She returned to visit Hogwarts in September, more than five years after the final battle. She arrived just as the weather was turning crisp, the wind sharp in a way that only Scotland ever managed to be. 

The gates to the school were shut to her and she waited several minutes in the cold, only to see a dark figure, hunched against the wind walking towards her.

She recognized him immediately.

The gates swung open silently as he approached and he stopped just short of her, close enough to have his scent, cloves, spice, drift towards her on the wind.

“Professor Snape,” her greeting was neutral and she did her level best not to emote all over him. Restraining her expression was painful though, the last time she saw him he had been bleeding out and she had been desperately trying to save his life.

“Miss Granger,” Severus Snape didn’t sound happy to see her. “To what does Hogwarts owe this...pleasure?”

Hermione bit down on the inside of her cheek as she stepped towards him. In something like a trance and through no conscious effort she moved closer. Seeing him, his sharp features, how his black robes highlighted the still vaguely unhealthy pallor of his skin. He looked no older than he had when she had last seen him, he looked younger in fact.

On some levels that made sense. He was no longer under the thumb of either master, was finally a free man for once. There was no war. Maybe he had spent more time actually taking care of himself.

She realized that he had been speaking, saying something she couldn’t quite hear. His mouth was moving, but she could only hear a low buzzing and the whooshing of her own heartbeat. He must have been speaking for quite a while because his brow was furrowed and his mouth had turned down at the corners. His gaze was going between her eyes as if he was trying to make sense of something about her face.

She had bit down so hard on her cheek she tasted blood.

Memories caught her firm, and it was like she was back there, back in the Shrieking Shack, hunched over his prone form, desperately trying to do something, anything, to save him.

This time it was him who took a step towards her, his arm outstretched.

His warm hand rested against her cheek, and his touch was a shock that ran down her spine.

“Miss Granger?” He asked, what must have been a third or fourth time.

She sucked in a ragged breath to try to answer, but the taste of sharp copper lingered in her mouth.

  
  


_his gaze was a physical thing_

**Winter 2003**

He was watching her. 

He was always watching her.

His gaze was a physical thing, heavy on her every day.

After whatever had happened at the school gates, he had been wary around her, had never talked to her. But he had watched and the weight of his eyes held her down.

At meals they dined in near silence. But he shot sidelong looks at her as she buttered her toast or reached for her tea.

He was there casting concerned glances in her direction during every staff meeting. 

When they crossed paths in the hall, he would sometimes turn and watch her walk by. Not saying anything, never saying anything.

His gaze wasn’t pitying, she had decided after a month of watching him watch her. There was something that lurked behind his eyes that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. But it was always there.

She dreamt of his eyes sometimes, black and glittering. Obsidian in carved marble.

It made her frustrated. 

It made her infuriated.

She had done the work on herself post-war. She had found a squib psychologist, she had talked about her feelings, and she had healed. She no longer had the flashbacks she had been prone to in those first few months after the battle. She was better, and everyone she knew would say so.

But seeing him look at her like that, like she was fragile, like she was a bomb about to detonate filled her with rage. She was an adult goddamnit. And he should treat her like one. Not like some fragile porcelain doll.

But his gaze was there, every day, weighing her down.

  
  


_wrapped his arms around her_

**Spring 2003**

It had come to a head during rounds one night during the holidays.

Both had opted to stay at the castle, and most of the prefects had left, leaving professors to pick up the slack on patrols.

She had hesitated in the front hall, pausing to take in how the repairs had put to right what had once been a crime scene, a war zone. She couldn’t see the blood on the floors, but she remembered it, the tangy smell of it, how it had almost been black in the poor light of the battle-damaged hall, how it had stained everything she wore that night.

She stared off into the distance and absently ran her fingers over her lips.

The tap of footsteps broke her revery. She twisted to see Severus Snape approach. She forced her shoulders to relax and she sheltered her hands in the folds of her robes.

“Professor Snape,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a dignified nod.

She bit her lip to hide her shock when he actually spoke to her.

“Professor Granger,” he replied, eyeing her skeptically, “how are you doing this evening?”

“Fine, just finishing up rounds.” She kept her eyes trained on a wall somewhere to his left, pretending to be focused on one of the portraits.

He made a noise, low in his throat, that sounded like a scoff, and somehow, after he hadn't spoken to her, after he had done nothing but watch her, after he had walked on eggshells around her for months, somehow that small noise was the last straw.

“Professor Snape, is there something you’d like to say to me?” Her voice was brittle, high, and thin. She winced at how unstable she sounded even to her own ears.

“You should not be here. You should not be teaching. You need more support than the school can give.” His eyes were trained on her, and even though she still was not looking at him, she felt the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have been nothing other than professional towards you and towards the students. I am perfectly capable of carrying out my duties. And every other professor and staff member seems to think so as well. You are the only one casting aspersions on my abilities.” Her voice was closer to her normal tone, but her hands were clenched into fists so tight that she could feel the bite of her fingernails into her palms.

“Well they haven’t seen you like—like this.” His stutter gave her pause and she turned her body slightly to look at him.

“Like what, exactly?”

His dark eyes caught hers and the intensity there made her breath falter in her chest.

“They haven’t seen you in these quiet moments, when you look like the war is still panting down your neck.” His voice was low and serious and it made her want to shake him by the shoulders.

She glared at him.

“It is not. I do not,” she bit out. Her nails were digging into her palms so sharply she was sure they were leaving bloody furrows.

He arched an eyebrow at her but said nothing.

She felt her cheeks heat to red and her whole body began to shake.

“How dare you,” her voice came out uneven and sharp, “how dare you presume to know what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking.”

His mouth turned down at the corners and his eyes narrowed.

“I simply—”

“No, you simply nothing,” her voice cracked out like a whip. “I was the one in these halls that I grew up in battling for my life, seeing those I loved die, being cursed and chased and hunted. I have recovered—” her voice broke and she took a shaky inhale, trying to regain her calm.

She steadied herself and continued, slower and softer.

“I have recovered. Years of therapy and personal work has allowed me to find peace—”

“Peace?” It was Snape’s turn to look furious. HIs black eyes glinted in the low candle light and he took several steps closer to her until she would have been able to reach out and touch him. 

Or punch him.

“There is no such thing as peace,” he spat. “There is war and then there is waiting for the next war to begin. Peace is an illusion for fools. You are no fool Hermione.”

Her heart caught in her throat at the sound of her name from his lips. She felt the hot rush of tears pressing against her eyes and her chest caved in on itself.

How awful must it be to live your entire life in battle or preparing for it. Didn’t he—this man who had given everything for one cause or another, keeping nothing for himself—didn’t he of all people deserve peace?

She swallowed back a sob and tilted her head up to better meet his gaze.

“That’s not true,” her voice was steady, but thick with tears.

For a second his face broke, his mouth pinched, heartache filling his features. But he closed his eyes and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed harshly.

“It is all I’ve known.” His voice was softer, but still somehow powerful.

She blinked twice.

Her hand left her robes and she lifted it to his face, palm bloody from the bite of her nails. Her fingers ghosted over the sharp edge of his jaw.

“Well then, we will simply have to teach you a new way of living.” She tried to make her tone matter of fact, but it came out wet and desperate. 

He opened his eyes and there was a new light in them, something raw. He took two quick steps towards her and wrapped his arms around her.

“We both will then.” he whispered as she relaxed into the welcome cage of his arms.

  
  
  


_pressed her mouth firmly against his_

**Summer 2004**

Hermione had taught for an entire school year now. Teaching had been the easy part. The students, the lesson plans, the grading, it had all been fine.

Being back in the building though, it had been more and less than she wanted. Over the months of wandering through the halls she had realized that there was no such thing as closure. That instead she would have to live with the ghosts. It had been disappointing and heartbreaking, but not all that surprising.

So when she found herself hovering around the entrance to the Shrieking Shack on the first nice day in June, she knew that this was what was next.

Pacing around the perimeter was hard. Every time she got close enough to see the door her heartbeat would speed up, and she would quicken her pace to get out of sight of it.

Four circuits later she was slightly out of breath, and no closer to walking in the building than she had been when she had first approached.

Someone cleared their throat as she hesitated at the beginning of her fifth circuit. Her head shot up and her hand went to her wand automatically.

Severus Snape stood, a shadow in the sunshine of a hot June day. 

She stood stock still, her back ramrod straight as he stalked towards her. She could feel the tension in her shoulders, she was holding herself so tightly she was practically vibrating with it.

“Professor Granger,” his voice was the same silky smooth baritone that she remembered from school.

Since that night in December they had been dancing around whatever was between them. Well, perhaps dancing was too strong. He had been circling her warily, and she had been standing still, watching him, waiting for him to come just a little closer. 

Faculty meetings and shared commiseration over the antics of students had turned into quietly reading side by side in public spaces, had turned into conversations and tea in his chambers or hers.

She had seen the heat behind his eyes when he looked at her sometimes, she had known what it meant. Some deep seated feminine knowledge let her know, let her feel, that the spark in his gaze that made her shiver meant that he desired her.

It was there in his look now.

He came an arms length away from her and stopped.

His eyes were on her and his hunger was raw and ravenous and palpable. Her cheeks were hot with what she was sure was a spectacular blush. Her hands were shaking, and her breath was coming in harsh pants.

This thing that had been building between them was teetering on the precipice. She was in a pocket of sunshine and was inflamed. He was in front of her, sucking up the sunlight and radiating heat, and the scorch of the sun was beating down at her back. 

“Hermione.”

“Severus.”

He reached towards her, and his hands curled around her forearms, pulling her in close. For a minute Hermione’s voice was caught in her throat. His hands curved into her, holding her steady.

“I was…” she paused, uncertain of where she was going, what she was doing.

“I know.” His voice was low and his eyes never left hers.

The summer breeze that rustled tree leaves broke the silence that surrounded them.

“Have you been in since…?” She trailed off, hesitant.

“No. No.”

She ran her tongue across her lower lip and his eyes followed its path.

“Do you want to?” Her voice was near a whisper.

“No,” he said, just as quietly.

She worried the inside of her cheek.

“I feel like—I feel like I should.”

“Why?” His question was direct and simple, but it made her stop.

“I don’t know.”

“So don’t.”

It sounded so simple when he said it.

His hand, so pale she could see the blue green being running across its surface, went to her throat. He curved his palm around so that his hand mirrored where hers had been, that night in the Shrieking Shack, when his blood had satined her palms crimson. He hesitated there for a second, then trailed his hand up so that it cupped her cheek. He used his thumb to pull her lower lip from between her teeth.

“So don’t,” he repeated. 

A deep thrill of relief bloomed in her chest.

“Okay. Okay. Okay.” 

They stood there together. 

The silence between them was heavy, and Hermione felt the edge of the precipice of this thing between them under her toes.

So she jumped.

She kept her eyes open as she leaned and pressed her mouth firmly against his. Their teeth clattered and she tilted her head so that the strong line of his nose didn’t interfere.

He gasped into her mouth and dragged her closer to him, one hand remaining on her cheek, the other circling around her waist, pulling her close.

  
  


_all of them, finally_

**Summer 2004**

A month later and the heat of the July sun had forced them to retreat to the cool of his quarters in the dungeon. 

They sat on his sofa in front of the empty fireplace. Hermione was prone, a book hovering over her face thanks to a cleverly placed hovering charm, legs slung over Severus’ lap. He was reading his own book, one hand absently stroking up and down her bare leg with the lightest of touches.

It was comfortable, domestic even.

His touch started wandering higher with each pass. His fingertips left a trail of fire in their wake. Because of her position, her summer dress—chosen for comfort from the heat and not for modesty—was already rucked up to her thighs. At the top of each stroke his practiced fingers pushed the hem higher and higher until—

The levitation charm on the book failed and it thumped to the ground as Hermione let out an involuntary noise, high in her throat and desperate.

He lifted his hand from her leg and marked his place in his book, placing it down on the side table before turning to face her fully.

“Hermione,” his voice was black silk and she felt it entwine around her.

His eyes were predatory as they tracked up her body, lingering on the apex of her thighs and then on her breasts before coming to rest on her face. 

He reached for her and _he cradled her hand_ for a moment before lacing their fingers and pulling her to a seated position.

She moved closer to him until she was in his lap, her legs straddling his. She brought their entwined hands to her mouth, dropping a kiss on each of his knuckles before letting it go so that she could wrap both arms around his neck. She pressed her lips to the ridge of his clavicle, making a path of kisses up his neck, on his jaw, across his cheek until they reached his mouth.

One of his large hands tangled in her hair, pulling in closer, securing her lips to his. His other hand resumed stroking the smooth tan skin of her leg, up the side of her thigh to the edge of her knickers and then back down again.

She shifted against him and felt the firm line of his cock press against her center and she bucked into his hardness. He let out a strangled gasp and she repeated the motion.

She was pressed firmly against him, _chest to chest_ and she felt how hard her nipples were through the light cotton of her dress. She hoped he could feel them on his firm chest.

His hand clenched around her bottom and he ground against her, causing her to whimper into his mouth.

Severus used his hand in her hair to tilt her head back, giving him access to her throat. He nipped at a pulse point and she bit down on her lip to keep from begging. His hand on her arse moved between them, and he rubbed his fingers against the gusset of her knickers. She moved her knees further apart to allow him better access, which meant that she also lowered herself further against him and pressed harder down on his fingers.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed out reverentially, “you’re so wet for me, aren’t you?” 

His fingers dragged the fabric across her slit, and she let out a shallow gasp, nodding frantically.

“Yes,” she said, voice higher than normal, desperate to agree with him and hoping he would apply just a little more pressure, move his fingers just a bit to the side.

“Take off your dress,” his command was rough and she unwound her arms from around his neck, pulling up the hem of her skirt and pulling it over her head in a fluid motion.

His eyes went to her bare breasts, arousal combined with the cool air of the dungeon ensuring that her nipples remained hard. The summer sundress had built in support, so when she had put it on that morning she had foregone a bra, a fact that she was grateful for, given the worshipful look that had overtaken Severus’ face.

He detangled his hand from her hair. Tenderly _he_ _brushed her hair from her face_ , tucking a wayward curl behind her ear _._ He dragged his hand down, stopping at her neck where it rested for a moment. _His hands pressed against her throat._ She was sure he could feel the frantic beat of her pulse under his fingers. His fingers applied just the littlest amount of pressure and her breath hitched.

He let go and then the path of his hand went down her chest before he caressed the underside of her breast with his thumb. Her whole body shivered in delight and he offered her a wicked smile, the fingers over her knickers rubbing back and forth again.

“So responsive,” Severus murmured, returning his gaze to her breasts as he pinched one nipple then the other. The sensation was a sharp burn that made her core clench.

Hermione brought a hand to rest against his cheek and he tore his focus away from her chest.

“Please,” she whispered against his mouth, leaning in to kiss him again. He smirked into the kiss.

She broke off the kiss with a moan as he wandlessly vanished her knickers, leaving her naked in his lap, while he was still dressed in an oxford and slacks, both black. 

With sure fingers he stroked her folds, parting her labia, collecting her slick from her entrance and then running his fingers over and across her clit. His hand on her breasts drifted from one side to the other, plucking at her nipples and running his blunt fingernails over her sensitive peaks. She felt the pressure of her building pressure push against her lower back as she keened at his ministrations. He kept the pressure perfect and increased the speed until she jolted against him, her cunt clenching down on nothing as she came.

She caught her breath, head resting against his shoulder. She kissed his shoulder and then his neck. She brought her palm to cup his jaw and her _hand rested against his cheek._

She became clearly aware of their disparity, her wild hair a cloud around her head, her naked body damp from their exertions as he sat there fully dressed. At least he had foregone his usual heavy robes that morning she thought as she moved her hands to the buttons on his shirt.

His hand on her breasts restrained her fingers.

“Not yet,” he said.

Instead his arms went around her, supporting her bottom and he stood with her in his arms, lifting her up. Her legs went automatically around him and she made a high pitched noise of surprise. He laughed, warm and rich in his ear as he carried her to his bedroom.

He dropped her unceremoniously in the center of his large four poster bed.

Hermione made herself comfortable, reclining against the pillows, her eyes on him.

She watched as his fingers undid the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease. 

_Her gaze was a physical thing,_ hyper focused on each new morsel of skin that was revealed as he stripped for her. 

Severus put on such a good show and her fingers went to her core, dragging through her slick to circle her clit gently. She was looking at him as a woman dying of thirst looks at an oasis.

When he was naked he joined her on the bed, all lean muscle and pale skin. He hovered over her for a second and her eyes trailed down the length of his body, catching on the scars and battle marks that marred his skin. Her hands followed the path of her eyes and she pressed her fingertips into each mark, leaving a blessing with her touch.

He pulled her off of the pillows and _wrapped his arms around her_. He pulled her close to him and she reveled in his hold, feeling safe and whole.

She squeaked in surprise as he flipped them so that she was on top and he was reclined against the pillows. When they had moved, she had been repositioned so that her core was resting on his cock. She could feel how hard he was and she circled her hips, grinding down on him.

“Ride me,” Severus ordered her and she gave him a sharp wicked smile, more than happy to comply.

Hermione used her hands to lever herself up so that she was hovering over him. One hand went between them and she took hold of his length, guiding him into her. She let out a long breath as she adjusted to his girth.

She bounced on his cock and his eyes moved between her breasts and her face. One of his hands curled possessively around her thigh, his fingertips making impressions in her skin. His other hand stoked her flank, occasionally drifting over her chest to play with her breasts.

Again, Hermione felt herself ascending a familiar mountain. She leaned forward, so that her breasts could rub against his chest, the hair there making for a delicious sensation. The new angle allowed him to hit that spot inside of her, the one that made her constrict around him in anticipation. 

Severus took advantage of the new position and grabbed both of her hips, pounding up into her. Hermione moaned, each thrust was perfectly angled so that he was putting pressure on her clit when he was fully sheathed in her.

She was so close and she could tell he was too.

Hermione shut her eyes, savoring the sensation. A groan from him made her watch his face. His eyes were on her as well.

She crashed her lips down on his and could taste his desperation. She remained there and he _pressed his mouth firmly against hers_ as she pulsed with completion around his thick cock. 

She felt wild-fire heat tear through her.

She felt all his touches, _all of them, finally,_ burn through her, the flames of his affection causing the lingering scars to burn.

She caught fire.

**Author's Note:**

> As always you can follow me on [tumblr](%E2%80%9Dmisselylux.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)
> 
> I love to hear what you think! I really enjoyed writing this one and I hope you enjoyed reading it!


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